Murder on the Hogwarts Express
by MamaLaz
Summary: One broken down train. One dead body. One million secrets. But which of the passengers is the murderer?
1. Prologue: A Murder is Afoot

**Title: **Murder on the Hogwarts Express

**Author: **MamaLaz

**Summary:** One broken down train. One dead body. One million secrets. But which of the passengers is the murderer?

**Rating: **Hmmm… I'll say R, just in case someone (coughDracocough) swears :)

**Notes:** Based very loosely on Agatha Christie's brilliant _Murder on the Orient Express_ (and no, the murder in this fic is nowhere near the same as the one in the novel!). This is my first proper non-R/D fic. It's a scary thought but this story actually has a plot so I'm excited, too. Please read! There are twists galore – which I hope you all don't get. Enjoy :)

* * *

**Murder on the Hogwarts Express**

**Prologue  
**

A howl of wind and a swirl of snow hit hard against the windows of the carriage. Candlelight flickered, the occasional teacup rattled and the still train shook slightly with the raging blizzard outside.

Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, who had been limping back and forth in front of the crackling fireplace, suddenly stopped abruptly. Standing in the middle of the spacious carriage, the light of the fire shadowing his already distorted features, the head Auror turned his gnarled, weathered face turned towards his audience. With his glass eye spinning almost sickeningly within his head, his slash of a mouth twisted revoltingly and his normal, beady eye slowly sizing up his prey, he looked, in turn, at each and every one of the thirteen people present.

Harry Potter was sitting on a spindly chair and looking nervous.

Ron Weasley, face going pink, was determinedly trying not to catch Moody's eye.

Hermione Granger was worrying her lip and darting her gaze erratically to the faces of the other passengers.

Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom briefly looked at one another before looking away.

Ludo Bagman, sitting in the middle of the group and fingering the money pouch hanging off his hip, looked shifty.

Seamus Finnigan, chewing on the inside of his mouth, was twiddling his thumbs.

Lavender Brown, perched on the arm of his seat, was looking breathlessly excited.

Rita Skeeter, Quick Quotes Quill and notepad hovering beside her, was waiting in hungry anticipation.

Pansy Malfoy, seated beside Lavender and pursing her thin lips, was looking at Moody with severe dislike.

Draco Malfoy, who was reclining into his armchair with a lazy type of arrogance, was filing his nails with a strip of hardened boomslang skin and looking bored.

And Stan Shunpike and Ernie Prang, who were seated beside each other, looked rather excited about the whole affair.

Moody continued to stare about him angrily. His disfigured face was full of such disgust and revulsion that it appeared to physically darken his already marred complexion and, after giving each of the thirteen persons a glare and a snarl, he opened his diagonal gash of a mouth to speak.

"There's a murderer in this room tonight," he growled, his voice low and abrupt and as rough as sandpaper. "A stinking, cowardly piece of dirt who's killed in cold blood."

Leaning upon his long staff, his wooden leg briefly revealed from beneath the folds of his cloak, Moody paused his speech to limp forward a step or two. A series of _thuds _joined the ticking grandfather clock in the corner as the only noises in the room before he spoke again.

"But the murderer's not the only guilty party here," Moody continued in his gruff, harsh voice as his gaze passed across the arc of nervous faces. "Oh no, not by a long shot. I would've figured this out a damn sight quicker if you lot weren't such a gutless pack of liars – oh yes, girlie, _even you."_

Lavender, who had opened her mouth to protest, found Moody's disconcerting magical eye fixed on her. Deflating slightly, her cheeks going pink, she closed her mouth again.

Unhindered by the interruption, Moody continued.

"Now, Lucius Malfoy might have been a worthless piece of Death Eater scum who I feel got exactly what he deserved…" Hermione Granger briefly frowned at Moody "… but murder's still murder and old Mad Eye's never failed to solve one before this. And seeing that this homicidal _filth _hasn't had the good manners to come clean and confess, I've had to spend my own valuable holiday time to uncover the truth."

Here Moody stopped, looking incredibly put-out.

Harry Potter's eye twitched.

Rita Skeeter's Quill almost snapped in its excitement.

Draco Malfoy yawned.

"… Wait, so you know who did it?" Ron Weasley suddenly spoke up.

Moody's magical eye spun around to look at him, giving Ron an eerily unblinking stare. Moody then let out a horrible smile, which twisted his already lopsided mouth and made his heavily scarred face look even more grotesque and contorted.

"Oh yes, Weasley," he said softly, both of his eyes fixed on Ron Weasley as the redhead went pale. _"I do."_


	2. Chapter 1: Boarding the Hogwarts Express

**Chapter One **

**Boarding the Hogwarts Express**

It is at 11 o'clock in the morning, amidst the usual hustle and bustle of Kings Cross Station that this particular story begins.

The Hogwarts Express, the scarlet steam engine used to ferry students from all around the United Kingdom to the prestigious Scottish school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, stands grandly alongside its platform on this particular day, its old-fashioned horn blaring out loudly and its engine billowing huge clouds of smoke in all directions.

A wooden gold-leafed sign overhead reads '_Hogwarts Express, 11 o'clock_' and a wrought-iron archway, where the ticket office should have ordinarily been, proudly announces that 'Platform Nine and Three-Quarters' is where you happen to be standing.

However, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, on this particular cold morning, is missing the presence of three Aurors.

"Oh, I can't _believe_ how late we are! I mean, honestly! I'll be surprised if the train is still there! _Really,_ Ron! How many times last night did I tell you to pack?"

Three blurred figures, one black, one red and the other brown, were hurtling down Platform Nine, panting loudly and pushing their rattling trolleys as fast as they possibly could without accidentally running someone over.

Ronald Weasley, swerving his trolley in the nick of time to avoid crushing a poodle under his wheels, screeched his way forward, his pile of luggage tilting dangerously as the dog-owner hurled abuse after him.

"Sorry!" he apologised breathlessly over his shoulder, still running flat out and almost colliding into the elderly woman in front.

Harry Potter, with what little remaining breath he had, snorted with amusement before pointing at a rather desolate area of the platform, the metal barriers separating Platform Nine from Ten and glinting invitingly.

"There!" he puffed, his raised arm feeling like lead. "Can't see any muggles about! Reckon we can risk it?"

"Oh, Harry, just go before we miss it!" Hermione implored desperately, gasping and clutching a stitch in her side.

With a grin, Harry charged himself forwards and, but a second later, he had disappeared into the barrier. Ron followed and, with a mock-salute to Hermione, leaned against the barrier to disappear into it with a touch of flair.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Show off," she muttered and had barely raised a foot before a disembodied, freckled arm appeared out of thin air, clutched her by the shoulder and yanked her clear through the barrier, too.

Stumbling into Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, her hair wild and her bags hanging off of her small frame awkwardly, Hermione opened her mouth to berate her boyfriend before he took her trolley from her, puffed,

"Save it for later!"

And tore his way up the platform. Tipping the trolley with all its luggage into the baggage car, Ron then threw the trolley aside, sprinted his way back, picked up the still complaining Hermione and ran flat out to where Harry was frantically beckoning them with his hands.

They had just pulled themselves through an open carriage door when a shrill whistle sounded throughout the empty station and a loud, nasally voice boomed,

"_The 11 o'clock train calling fast to Hogsmeade station is ready to depart. All aboard, please, all aboard!"_

"Bloody hell!" Ron swore, face red but looking relieved as he rolled shut his eyes. He then leaned back against the nearest wall and slid down to the floor as the train slowly, loudly began to _chug!chug!chug! _forward. "I thought we missed it for sure."

Harry, equally as tired beside him, nodded in agreement. Leaning his head back against the wall and breathing sharply through his nose, Harry lifted his green eyes up and took in his surroundings.

He then started.

A huge, warmly-lit chandelier hung from the wooden ceiling above, old-fashioned portraits hung from the mahogany walls and a large, comfortable four poster bed sat to one side of the room. An old antique rug lay across the floor, a large wooden grandfather clock was standing against a wall and a small, ornate fireplace was situated on the opposite wall from the bed. Lit candelabras sat on the mantelpiece and an elaborate scarlet and gold armchair was placed almost artistically in the middle of the room.

Harry blinked.

"I think we've broken into someone's house."

"Oh, of course we haven't," Hermione retorted, flicking her bushy hair and sounding almost affronted that he questioned her sense of direction. "You know the Hogwarts Express becomes a luxury commercial train during these term-time months. The board of Governors aren't the most charitable committee and Dumbledore can hardly be expected to foot the entire bill for the school. Apparently, it goes all over the country. Professor McGonagall even told me once that they had ideas of introducing it internationally, to go all over Europe."

Ron, who had finally cracked an eye open, turned his head to look at the room, rather impressed. The nearest portrait to him, who happened to be a busty Victorian witch, giggled and winked at him.

"It's nice." Ron grinned.

"Come on," Hermione said brusquely, pulling Ron up by his hand and shooting the painting an irked look. "Our tickets instruct us to go to Prefect's Lounge before we settle into our carriages. I just hope we're not the only ones so late."

* * *

"Trevor? Oh, _Trevor!"_

Neville Longbottom, who was on his hands and knees and had been looking hopefully under a table, let his round face fall.

Emerging from under the table and rubbing his skull as it impacted with the underside of it, he turned to his companion miserably.

"I can't find him!" he wailed.

Ginny Weasley, who was checking under a rug and had dust streaked in her bright red hair, tried to smile brightly as she lowered the side of the carpet back down again.

"Don't worry, Nev, he always pops up," she said helpfully, rising up to her full height as she brushed dirt off of her robes. "Have you checked your pocket?"

"I've checked all my pockets!" Neville replied unhappily, flopping down on the nearest couch and looking crushed. "Nan's going to kill me if I've lost him for good."

Ginny tried not to roll her eyes as she continued to search.

"You really shouldn't let her intimidate you so much, Neville," she said, rummaging optimistically through the leaves of a large potted plant, which appeared to be ticklish and kept giggling nonsensically with her touches. Giving up the search because the laughter began to get incredibly irritating, Ginny turned around, wiped her earthy hands on her robes and wore a rather kindly expression. "You're 21, Neville! You're not her responsibility anymore, you live at Hogwarts now. She has to understand that you're an adult. Maybe you should have a talk with her…"

Neville physically paled at the thought but was saved from replying as a disembodied, overly friendly female-voice suddenly interrupted their conversation, causing both their heads to look up.

"_Could all passengers please make their way to the Prefect's Lounge as soon as possible. Thank you."_

* * *

Alastor 'Mad Eye' Moody, Head of the Department of Aurors and general paranoid grouch, scowled at the announcement that had ever-so-rudely pulled him from his sleep.

Staring up at where the voice had sounded from, both of his eyes looking canny and still, Moody made a mental note to remind Albus – when he saw him – to get rid of such overdone tosh. Giving a train a voice was a load of unnecessary rubbish and the Hogwarts Express was better off without it – as it was without the worthless trinkets above the fireplace, the over-the-top gold furniture and those chandeliers that simply played havoc with his glass eye.

Groping for the hipflask that he kept upon his person at all times, Moody pulled out the stopper then, taking a suspicious sniff, took a swig.

Well, you never could be too careful. Especially when apparently-dead bastard Death Eaters had a habit of imprisoning you in a trunk, yanking out all of your hair and taking over your life.

A hoot of laughter suddenly sounded from outside his comfortable carriage and without thinking another thought, Moody spat out his drink, shot up straight and pointed his wand in the direction of the door.

Shrewdly staring into the hallway, his eyeball twitching in all directions, he eventually caught sight of a giggling young couple making their way to the front of the train in high spirits. Clutching each other most improperly and making enough racket to wake up the entire train, Moody pocketed his wand with a growl and an angry glare at them.

_Damn kids_, he thought irritably.

* * *

Lavender Brown, gasping through a fit of unrelenting giggles and the three firewhiskeys she had recently downed at _The Leaky Cauldron_, had come to the conclusion that her current boyfriend was the funniest person on the planet.

"Seamus Finnigan, you are such a liar!" she shrieked with glee, the alcohol in her system making her body tingle pleasantly and her head spin rather uncontrollably as she fell against the Irishman and grasped onto his collar. She then hiccupped into his neck, collapsed her head onto his shoulder and left a spectacular trail of drool on his robes.

Fortunately for her, Seamus Finnigan was just as smashed and didn't notice.

"As Mary and Joseph are my witnesses, it's true!" Seamus slurred as loudly and drunkenly back at her, grinning from ear to ear. Cheeks flushed and his eyes rather cross-eyed, Seamus leaned forward and, trying to whisper conspiratorially into her ear, missed and mumbled into her eye instead. "I'm telling ya, Lav, the things I know would make your hair curl!"

"The things you know wouldn't fill an egg cup, Finnigan," a dry voice suddenly sneered.

Seamus, who was the only slightly less inebriated of the two, lifted up his head. He then, in a rather miraculous moment of clarity, realised that thin air couldn't possibly converse with him, let alone be rude about it, so he squinted, closed one eye to focus his hazy vision and soon let out a huge grin of recognition at the girl in front of him.

"Well, would you look at that…! Look, Lav, look who it is!" he cheerfully cried out, every white tooth of his shining in display in his enthusiasm as he pulled back Lavender's head by her ponytail. "Well, bugger me sideways, you're here too, eh? Damn, Parkinson, we all thought you were dead!"

The once Pansy Parkinson, who still happened to be blonde, curly-haired and pug-nosed, was definitely not dead as she sniffed haughtily, lifted up her chin and wiped her expensive pink robes with the back of her hand, as though the couple's very presence was sullying her clothes. She then glared at them in distaste, especially as she eyed Lavender, whose mouth was producing a puddle of drool at her feet.

"Of course I'm alive, you illiterate twit," Pansy hissed, eying them both with so much contempt that it made her left eye twitch, "It's unfortunate that I can say the same for you. And not that it's any of your business, _Finnigan_, but it's 'Malfoy' now, not 'Parkinson'. Now, if you'll get your pathetic carcasses out of my way, I have somewhere to be."

Pushing passed them both and causing Lavender to squeal as she fell to the floor, Pansy stormed off down the hall, her compartment door sliding shut behind her with a click. Seamus, who was blinking blearily after her and continuing to look jovial, turned back to Lavender, who was still lying on the floor.

"What a bitch," he said, grinning.

* * *

Ludo Bagman was fidgeting.

Walking backwards and forwards across his compartment, clearly in a state of wild unease, Bagman's round blue eyes darted nervously through the glass of his compartment door and into the hallway.

Hands sweating so profusely that he wiped the palms of them across the front of his robes, he began to think that maybe this wasn't a very good idea.

Gringotts was still after his blood, the Ministry still wanted him in for questioning and he was travelling on his last few galleons.

Wiping his smooth, boyish round face with a handkerchief, sweat soaking through the spotted material, he meekly tried to reason with himself that there was nothing else he could do. The Ministry were tapping all other magical forms of transportation, including the Floo Network and all viable portkey points. He had no other option.

The Hogwarts Express was his only escape from London.

Continuing to check at the hallway for goblins in relentless paranoia, Ludo watched as a familiar blonde girl stalked her way passed his door and up to the front of the train.

Idly fondling the incredibly light money pouch that was hanging off of his hip, Ludo pressed his already squashed-nose against the glass in curiosity to watch her walking to the end of the hallway and entering the door to the Prefects Carriage.

And it was right then that it suddenly occurred to him who she was.

Pansy Malfoy. A Malfoy. _The Malfoys._

For the first time in weeks, Ludo Bagman saw a glimmer of hope.

And suddenly, just like that, all of his financial problems seemed to be solved.

* * *

Rita Skeeter looked at her haggard reflection in the mirror of her compartment and winced.

Despite how many layers of gaudy make-up she caked on her skin, how many times she charmed her Quick Quotes Quill to lie about her age and how many homes she had put her parents into so they couldn't reveal her real birth date, Rita Skeeter could deny it no longer.

She was getting old.

Glancing over at the folded newspaper on top of her dresser, she let out an almost venomous hiss at the name that looked mockingly back at her.

'Sharp Quills' McCoy.

Her talon-like red nails dug into her palms as she curled her hands into fists.

Oh yes, 'Sharp Quills' McCoy. The controversial new kid on the scene who was breaking the best stories. 'Sharp Quills' McCoy, whose 'sharp quills' were the first to cover every major story in the past month. And yes, 'Sharp Quills' bloody McCoy, who was making every other good journalist weep and Rita's career practically obsolete.

But if he thought Rita wasn't going without a fight, he was sorely mistaken.

Looking across at her bed and the scores of incriminating pictures across it, Rita slowly let out a sly, triumphant smile, especially as she eyed the platinum blond man who featured in every one of them.

Oh yes, Rita Skeeter still had one brilliant story to report. And not even that bastard McCoy could beat her to the punch.


End file.
